


Show Me The Kombu

by slothesaurus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Gen, groceries are fun, i just really need to see these two talking okay, i mean come on bara kids should stick together, if you meet someone there you can just throw dairy products at them if u hate them, viva la team guns and bazookas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 20:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6535174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothesaurus/pseuds/slothesaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iwaizumi and Sawamura run into each other at the grocery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Show Me The Kombu

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking, and crying, with [arturosavinni](http://archiveofourown.org/users/arturosavinni) over how attractive Hajime Iwaizumi and Daichi Sawamura are and if they were ever in the same room I would die. Spilled over into my dreams, and behold, my subconscious trying to write fic. It’s not really anything breathtaking, but I thought the idea was fun and I needed some exercise to be able to finish some other projects I’ve been unable to continue.
> 
> Can be seen as platonic or romantic since both make me smile into my pillow.

 

 

**\---**

 

 

Hajime glares at the shelf full of soup stocks, canned, boxed and otherwise. There is a wide selection of powdered dashi staring back up at him with colorful logos and likely over exaggerated product benefits. It would be so easy to just take one of the nearer brands and move on, but Hajime’s known how to make a damn good homemade dashi since he was five, with Oikawa’s gifted star speckled apron draped over him and his grandfather’s hummed instructions in the air like a song Hajime’s meant to finish.

He furrows his brow, feels his mouth move of its own accord, pouting at the display with his forefinger grazing his lips and his thumb pressing against his chin.

It’s not _difficult_ , but he’d need some time to make it as opposed to simply adding in ready-made powdered dashi.

Behind him, a little girl sniffles and sneezes while trailing after her mother.

He snorts and trudges away, mindful of the empty basket in his other hand.

He has time.

 

 

\---

 

 

“Where the hell do they keep the kombu here?” Hajime has his fingers carding through his hair, ruffling it up in frustration.

He takes another glance around the aisle he’s in now, scanning the rows for packets or anything resembling dried kelp.

Nothing.

He sighs and looks down into his basket, eyeing the block of silken tofu mingling with a box of miso paste and a bunch of scallions. Hajime consolingly admits that the quality of the products here is at least something else, but it’s always annoying when you don’t know your way around a few hundred aisles of food and potentially irritable customers.

He’s grateful that Oikawa isn’t around to make things worse.

And there goes his mouth again, another pout tag teaming in with his furrowed brows and crinkled nose. Equal parts expected and uncomfortable now that Matsukawa and Hanamaki had pointed out that his face made this kind of expression a _lot_.

_Hanamaki cooed, pinching his cheek and narrowly avoiding having his fingers bitten off. “Aww, don’t be shy about it, Iwaizumi.”_

_“Yeah, it’s adorable. Right, Oikawa?” Matsukawa agreed, going through the shared album on his phone titled, ‘Iwaizumi’s Thinking Face’, a collaborative of all the volleyball team’s third years._

_“Only because he probably copied it off me.” Oikawa had proclaimed, flashing him a victory sign and a wink before Hajime’s hand reached for the other boy’s jacket, “Ack, Iwa-chan, get back!”_

Hajime growls at the memory but stops short, mind finally supplying him with a fact that makes him pinch the bridge of his nose. He strides back to the soup stock aisle, face stony as he walks past and peeks on the other side.

He dunks his head into his basket and manages to turn a roar into a sigh against the tofu. He pulls back, cheeks slightly flushed as he swipes off a random packet of kombu and a large bag of katsuobushi.

He touches his face, feels the heat still on his cheeks from being such a dumbass, and like the arrival of the devil on his shoulder, his mind provides him with a phantom Oikawa to piss him off, right on schedule.

_“Iwa-chan, don’t mind. You’ve been thinking all afternoon, you’ve hit your limit!” Phantomkawa says with a soothing hand on his head._

He stuffs his free hand into the front pocket of his school hoodie, pulling out the crinkled ingredients list he’d written down before rushing out of his house. He holds the paper up in front of him, fingers stretching to flatten the creases for a clearer view of his handwriting. “When I get back I am going to punch Oikawa’s face in so hard he–”

Hajime blinks, focus shifting from the list and his fingers to a figure just past him. He lowers the list and tilts his head, eyebrows bunched up in surprise.

A clean, bright, and– _as always is the case with these things_ –alarming crown of bandages wrapped snugly around short hair. Broad shoulders and a strong back swaddled in a worn but comfy looking gray sweater. And, to Hajime’s amusement, both hands propped on their hips, ready to give orders and shift into a perfect receive when necessary.

_‘Weird’_ , he thinks while pocketing his list. He can’t even feel annoyed once his mouth curves into another pout, staring carefully at the other boy with the same fascination he’d given stag beetles and fireflies how many spring tournaments ago.

It really is weird, though. Alien– _of course he’d use_ that _term_ –for Hajime, not to see a blocky number one painted over black where he’s staring right now, and it makes a part of him wonder if this is what it will feel like when he looks at Oikawa after their turnover ceremony.

He snaps himself back, mutters a scolding “Not now, Hajime,” before shifting his gaze to the fresh and white bandages glaring at him, owner still concerned between two different types of milk. Hajime feels a familiar instinct in him to double check if the bandages are applied correctly twitch to life. It’s an itch that’s just as annoying as his rebellious facial muscles, and considering how he couldn’t stop a single damn pout, he’s not too confident about simply turning around and paying for his ingredients.

Hajime looks over his shoulder, expecting amused chocolate brown eyes and an infinitely punchable smirk, but only finds a tower of creampuffs for sale.

He frowns, almost disappointed if he were being honest with himself, and grabs two boxes of creampuffs, thinking of Hanamaki and what his face will look like when Hajime eats them in front of him without any intent on sharing.

Facing forward and switching his basket to his left hand, Hajime targets the assortment of butter at the end of the dairy aisle, right next to the milk.

 

 

\---

 

 

Hajime sidles up to the dairy aisle’s freezers, steps quiet and steady. He stops in front of the butter section, pause in movement causing his basket to swing forward once. He adjusts his grip and darts between brand names, trying to remember what his mom’s favorite was.

A hum beside him.

Hajime tilts his head and watches the other boy from the corner of his eye, curious.

From where he’s standing, he sees the look of concentration on Sawamura’s face and wants to call foul at his genetics. It’s not like his expression at all. Brows gently furrowed, mouth a thoughtful line, nose undoubtedly normal and non-scrunchable. He looks pleasant and serious on contemplating whether or not he should pick the vanilla almond milk or the regular full cream milk, but also not quite knowing the actual difference.

Sawamura holds the two cartons with a refined sort of helplessness, weighing both in his hands while mumbling out the ingredients, or the calorie count. Hajime can’t be sure unless he strains to hear him. It’s a few minutes of this stalemate with occasional glances at the low fat skim milk that Hajime feels his lips twitching up slightly.

He takes pity on him, clears his throat while casually perusing between a New Zealand brand and a French brand of butter, and tries to keep his mouth a flat but amicable line.

Sawamura blinks but doesn’t startle, turns his head like the curious Shiba Hajime used to have as a kid, and his eyes widen while his mouth pours out a soft “Ah,” of surprise.

“Iwaizumi,” He beams–likely out of recognition, lips curving into a tentative– _at first_ –but charming smile that’s vastly different from Oikawa’s, adds on a “Hi there,” before nodding his head.

He nods his own head, doesn’t smile back but finally lets loose a laugh that’s been building since he saw Sawamura mouth _‘fat content?’_ for the fifth time. “I’m a soy milk kind of guy, myself.”

Sawamura huffs, eyebrow raised and head minutely shaking, eyes clear as day in saying, _‘What are you up to?’_ with the default sort of fondness for most living things that probably parallels Oikawa’s default sort of animosity for most opponents.

There’s another beam chasing after the huff, though. And Hajime watches with mild fascination at how Sawamura’s knowing look melts into something sheepish but oddly enough, still charming.

“Thanks,” He hedges with a laugh, locating a decent looking carton of soy milk and inspecting the ingredients like he did before with the previous variants, “I don’t really buy this stuff normally. Would’ve gone with plain milk but it has to be special this time.”

“Any particular reason for it?” Hajime finds himself asking, body angling more towards Sawamura, basket resting on the bottom lip of the freezer they’re next to.

Sawamura hums out an “Oh,” focused on dutifully reading the carton’s contents, “Just, for my mom. Wanted to bake her something to show my appreciation but, uh, never baked anything before.”

Hajime blinks in a bit of astonishment, smells a whiff of a disaster waiting to happen from years of cultivated damage control expertise thanks to Oikawa and, surprisingly enough, Matsukawa’s antics.

“Recipe says I need milk,” Sawamura drones on with slight contempt and a sigh, “never mentioned there’d be a dozen different kinds to choose from.”

He’s about to place the soy milk in his basket when Hajime calmly takes it from him and returns it on the shelf, politely replacing it with a regular carton. He looks at him questioningly.

“If it says milk on the recipe, then just get milk.” Hajime intones gravely.

Sawamura imitates his old Shiba again, curious and thoughtful, and then laughs with a huge grin and closed, crinkled eyes. “You sound like you’ve survived a war over something like this.”

“I have.” And Hajime can feel himself making a faraway look, grim and haunted with the memory of _so much custard_ , Oikawa crying while brandishing himself with a fire extinguisher, and Matsukawa charging back past the flames for the _fucking_ creampuffs.

He hears a huff tailing the last bits of Sawamura’s laughter, blinking back into awareness before he’s shrugging. “I’m honored to receive your advice, then.”

Hajime snorts, amused until he catches Sawamura moving to scratch at his temple, but freezing when the tips of his fingers catch at the texture of thick bandages. He hears him exhale in frustration.

He’s intimately familiar with that sound, going to sleepovers and late night training sessions with that same echo replaying in his range of hearing. He goes back to the butter, picks the French brand he’d been eyeing earlier and chucking it into his basket, lets Sawamura stare at the yogurt near them before quietly asking, “You alright there, Sawamura?”

“You mean the bandages?” Sawamura simpers, fixes the alignment of the chocolate milk cartons before sighing, “Was helping my mom out with some high shelves in the garage. Fell off the ladder and hurt my head.”

Hajime’s hand stills where it is on the lid of a butter substitute. Sawamura immediately notices and provides him with another huff of amusement. “Just a couple of scrapes, nothing serious. Stings and itches like hell, though.”

And Hajime listens carefully for it, the telltale hitch or pause, anything to indicate a lie or a brush off, but doesn’t find it. It’s relieving, in a way, despite the bandages still existing in the first place.

“It’s why I want to bake my mom something.”

“Ah,” Hajime nods in understanding, brows raised while eyeing him knowingly, “Guilty and doting?”

Sawamura groans and nods, one hand on his face to cover a helpless smile. “Like you wouldn’t believe. I worried her a lot, so she’s not the only guilty one.”

“Moms are good like that.” Hajime offers with a helpless smile of his own, “As long as it isn’t serious then…hang in there.”

Sawamura nods to confirm this, and Hajime nods back.

It’s quiet between them. Quiet and awkward. The freezer hums constantly, the smell of ice wafting up at them from the meadow of dairy products flanking them from one end of the aisle to the other.

Hajime holds his basket with both hands, tapping a beat with his fingers while looking at the butter he doesn’t need.

Sawamura bends to pick up his basket, shifts it in the grip of his right hand and reaches up to scratch his temple again with his left, this time not remembering that it’d be a bad idea.

Hajime reacts as if Oikawa has tossed the ball up,  waiting for him to spike it through the opponent’s block. His palm reaches up to slap away Sawamura’s fingers lightly, fixing him with a face that’s halfway between a pointed glare and an awkward apology. “Don’t touch it.”

Sawamura takes a long moment to stare at his hand, now hovering in the air just in front of his nose where Hajime’s swatting had sent it. He immediately realizes that he might have crossed the line. They’re _not_ close, not even _friends_. Touching is one thing, but slapping hands away and bossing people around isn’t something Hajime’s entitled to with _just_ anybody.

Quietly, Sawamura dashes all his considerations and tilts his head back to look at him, eyes surveying him from head to toe with an unreadable expression.

“Iwaizumi,” He says calmly, the kind of calm before a storm, “you’d make a good mom.”

Hajime blanches and almost tips his basket over into the freezer, eyes widening and mouth gaping. It’s probably a coincidence that he’d say something like that. Probably, because unless Oikawa has died and possessed another team captain, Hajime’s pretty sure no one knows about that inside joke.

He knows that’s impossible since, like most forces of nature in the world, Oikawa is unstoppable and therefore, immortal.

“Why do you look so offended?” Sawamura laughs and bangs his hand on the lip of his basket. “I didn’t know you could look like that, Iwaizumi.”

Sawamura, Hajime takes note of with a familiar thrum of tolerance , isn’t as mature as he looks, apparently.

Hajime’s about to show Sawamura another one of his more prominent looks when he gets a solid shove from behind, making him knock his basket over, contents spilling out over the butter substitutes and margarines. He hears himself make something resembling an “oomph”, silencing Sawamura’s laughs as he blinks and looks behind Hajime to see who pushed him in the first place.

There’s a warm weight on his back, arms leaning on him before a familiar raspy alto chides, “Hajime, I know you’re older now but don’t just go wandering off without saying anything.”

“Ah.” He knew he forgot something.

“Ah?” He hears her bark out, laughing and tugging him back to spin him around and pinch his nose between her fingers, “Some people leave their carts in the cereal aisle, not their mothers.”

Hajime refuses to say more than one word, aware of how nasal he’ll sound with his mother holding him like this, “Sorry.”

His mother jiggles his nose gently from right to left, making his head sway with the movement, “I was reminiscing about how when you would race Tooru around in shopping carts when you were six, and I turn around to see an old man enjoying my nostalgia instead of you.”

She releases him from her grasp and bops his nose.

“ _Mom_.” Hajime sighs out, tone sufficiently exasperated.

“ _Brat_.” She whispers fondly with his smirk, brushing back her wavy dark hair and shifting her gaze to Sawamura watching this whole scene unfold in quiet fascination.

She smiles and tilts her head, forefinger finding its way to her mouth and thumb sliding down to her chin. “Who’s this? Another teammate?”

Sawamura has enough sense to perk up and bow, “Ah, nice to meet you, Iwaizumi-san. I’m Sawamura Daichi.”

“We played volleyball against them. He’s the captain of Karasuno.” Hajime explains as he nods towards Sawamura, noticing the way he glances past both of them with a perplexed expression.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” His mother replies and returns the bow, raising an eyebrow and giving Sawamura a purse of the lips as her voice lowers, “I heard you gave my boys a rough time.”

Sawamura’s distracted glancing stops, eyes widening and blanking out. His mouth stretches into a firm line that’s struggling for a polite smile or a grimace. “Oh, well. That is. Uh.”

He’s reaching to scratch at his head again, but before Hajime’s hand can knock it away, his mother’s long fingers have already curled around the other boy’s wrist, pushing it back down and patting his shoulder.

“I was just teasing, I was just teasing,” She says, laughing at him with the kind of glee only mothers gain from bullying children, “Don’t touch your injury, though, Sawamura-kun.”

Sawamura makes a face like an owl that’s just survived a near death experience, darting a glance Hajime’s way, gaze brimming with wonder over his mother’s choice of words.

Hajime levels him with one of his patented unamused stares. He turns around to set about fixing his basket of spilled ingredients.

“So, Sawamura-kun,” He hears his mother say, “what brings you out on your own today? And with an injury at that.”

Sawamura laughs, an odd note of pride in his voice, “Gonna bake something for my mom.”

“Aww, hear that, Hajime?” He feels a tap on his back which he acknowledges with a grunt, “A son baking for his mother.”

Hajime refuses to point out that he made her a bento and baked her a strawberry shortcake tartelette for work the other day. He’s already given Sawamura enough ammo for any more ‘mother’ jokes.

“Well, I think it’s really nice that he’s helping you with your shopping, Iwaizumi-san.” Sawamura politely points out, almost sounding as if he’s defending Hajime.

His mother snorts, stifling a laugh, “Actually,” she hums as she tugs Hajime away from recollecting his things, hugging him and beaming at Sawamura. “He marched right up to me and asked for a lift here because this place has all the ingredients he needs.”

“ _Mom_.” Hajime murmurs as he nudges her side, face scrunching up yet again.

“Sawamura-kun?” She calls with amusement, noticing that Sawamura has gone back to looking over their shoulders, “Looking for someone?”

“Oh!” Sawamura answers with a blush, earning another bat to the hand from another attempt at touching his head, “Sorry, it’s just that since Iwaizumi isn’t here alone, I thought Oikawa might have been with you two as well.”

“Ah, I see.” She hums out too happily.

“It’s kind of weird not seeing you with Oikawa.” Sawamura says to him, shrugging his shoulders and looking like he’s imagining where to fit Oikawa in between himself and his mother.

Hajime clears his throat as he slides out of his mother’s grasp and turns back to redepositing everything in his basket. Angrily.

“Well,” His mother starts from behind him, “Tooru _would_ be here, but he’s down with the sniffles.”

Hajime feels both eyes on him and violently grabs a wayward block of cheddar cheese and throws it on top of his purchases.

“So Hajime,” And here she prods him right between his shoulder blades, “is going to make him some soup.” She sounds proud, fond, and overall too entertained.

He feels heat at the back of his neck and tingling at his ears.

“Ah, how sweet of you, Iwaizumi.” Sawamura manages between a laugh, clapping him on the back, as if congratulating a groom at his wedding.

Hajime shrugs off his hand and holds up a stick of butter at him. “ _Sawamura_.” He hisses threateningly, armed with New Zealand Creamery’s finest and an intimidating face made less intimidating by the flush dusting across it.

Something rustles in his basket, and before he can make good on injuring Sawamura with dairy products, his bunch of scallions thwacks him on the head.

Sawamura covers his mouth, barely catching the laughter spilling out.

“ _Hajime_.” His mother warns softly, eyebrow raised challengingly and scallions drawn back for the next blow.

Hajime drops the butter back in the freezer, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay, this was fun. But I think we should go now.”

He feels fingers ruffling his hair, “ Yes, yes. As your wallet I support your decision. Besides, your patient is waiting for you.”

Hajime doesn’t fight the next pout and just clicks his tongue.

“It was nice meeting you, Sawamura-kun.” Hajime catches his mother patting his cheek as gently as possible. “Good luck with the baking. Get well soon.”

Sawamura bows to both of them, charming smile back in full force.

Hajime pauses and looks over his shoulder, Sawamura still watching him, aware he still has something to say.

“Sawamura.” He calls with the same level stare he gives from across the court, causing the other boy to stand a bit straighter, smile mellowing to a serious curve of the lips. “Yeah?”

“Don’t lose.”

Sawamura softens for a second, then nods, steady and full of sincerity.

Hajime turns away, heading to where his mother’s queued up in line at the cashier for him. He pulls out his phone and scoffs at the seven missed messages from Oikawa, ignoring all of them to send his own.

_Once we get you better I’m punching you in the throat._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm kind of in love with the idea of these two interacting as friends. Of course they're also very shippable, which makes any scenario with them twice as fun. Come talk to me on my [tumblr](http://slothesaurus.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/slothesaurus) about your headcanons! If you're more of a chat person feel free to request my LINE. I'd love a chance to use gudetama stickers more often. C:


End file.
